


Matrices

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-04
Updated: 2011-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 00:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Online conversation between brothers, on the topic of fabricated weaknesses, genuine inefficiency and the future resolution there of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matrices

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Late. Can't sleep. Can't just lie in bed either. Not enough space. Sore too. Painkillers. Paracetamol, ibuprofen or codine? Just sore. Not _injured_. Paracetamol. Can take ibuprofen later if necessary. Modes of action. Don't interfere with each other. Sit up straighter. Stretch. Adjust desk light. Pointing downwards. Light spills out. Enough to give semblance of illumination. Doesn't hit the bed though. Good. Don't want to wake-

Turn on laptop. Quick boot time. Reinstalled everything last week. Useful. Erase the excess. Data accumulated. Forget what I don't need. PXE installation. Corporate key. Some government department. Probably not Mycroft's. Wonder which one? Press Office. Most likely. _Someone's_ press office at least. Wonder if it's even a government one. Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn't matter. Legal copy at any rate. Rest of software... Open source, mostly. Lost graphics software in the reinstall. Torrent a copy later. Could ask Mycroft. Can't be bothered. Machine set to clean install if anyone else gets their hands on it anyway. Might invest in a thumbprint reader. Could be interesting. Not sure how useful though. Formatting takes care of the rest. Everything uploaded to secure servers anyway. Nothing incriminating here.

VPN. Log on. Cycle through options. Who are we today, Mycroft? Find him. Eurocorp Executive 001. Typical. Obscure reference if you don't know it. Connect. Password? Don't have patience for specifics. Use override password instead. _Wintermute_. DOS window. Green. Feeling particularly retro today, are we? Text across screen.

 _Tessier-Ashpool mainframe: connecting._

Smirk. Mycroft. Truth in fiction. But where does the fiction end?

 _Accessing Freeside._

Data movement. He's moving this conversation to a more local relay. Freeside. Surprised he doesn't call it Villa Straylight. Sometimes moves data to Sprawl instead. No idea where that's physically located.

 _Good morning, Wintermute. Connecting to Neuromancer._

Mycroft is Neuromancer of course.

 _Turing locks active._

Failsafes. Don't need to use to use them often. Precaution anyway. Turing locks engage and the connection fails. Wipes out all trace of contact. There is no Neuromancer. Watch final stage. Amused.

 _Merge in progress._

Read the novel of course. Curious. Wintermute is the major character. Wonder how that reflects? Neuromancer is- doesn't even show his face till the end.

 _Neuromancer: requesting audio link. Accept? y/n_

Prefers to talk, not text. Accept request. Dig out headset. Can't find smaller one. Just right ear and mouthpiece. Adjust mic. Can manage quiet conversation.

 _Merge complete._

Hear music through the headphones. Whatever Mycroft is listening to. Sounds like- definitely is Syndicate Wars. Probably playing it on a secondary screen.

“Good morning, Mycroft.”

Concession to civility? Concession to the hour. Default really. Always. Early hours of the morning. Always very polite.

“Sherlock, good morning.”

Silence. Mycroft _is_ playing his game. Can hear gunfire and occasional beeps in the background. Wonder if he's winning? Probably. Inevitably.

“Can't sleep?”

Just so. Can't sleep. Can't quite concentrate either. Awake but not _functional_. Aware. Enough to sit up. No real focus though. Not that there's any need to.

“I trust that you have taken painkillers.”  
“Of course.”  
“Give them time.”  
“It's not just that.”  
“Of course it is.”  
“Mycroft...”  
“Try to relax. You'll feel sleepy soon enough.”  
“What about you?”  
“Evil never sleeps. You should know that.”

Smile. Laugh softly. Typical Mycroft. Realise- of course.

“How's the diet?”  
“Fine. The diet's fine.”  
“What diet is it, out of interest?”  
“What?”  
“What diet plan?”  
“I'm not following any specific one.”  
“What does it consist of then?”  
“Sherlock, really-”  
“There's no diet, is there? You've been lying about it all along.”  
“Of course not. You know I'm very sensitive about my weight.”  
“No, you're not.”

Right of course. Mycroft isn't on a diet. Puts on weight because he never stops to eat properly. Eats in transit. Nearest thing. Probably never has been on a diet at all.

“Now, why would I lie about something like that?”  
“Fabricated weakness. Gives them something to target. Something you don't give a damn about.”

Goes quiet. Have I hit the mark? God help me if I'm wrong. Laughter. Mycroft is chucking. Right. Figured it out. Took me long enough.

“Well done, little brother. Well done.”

Exhale. Didn't realise I was holding breath.

“What are your weaknesses, Sherlock? I can think of a few.”

Damn. Of course. Plenty.

“What are you afraid of?”

What am I- Too many things. Afraid that if I'm wrong- afraid of losing- Look over to bed. Afraid that one day he'll just walk away. Afraid that when I stop being _useful_ to him- Afraid that perhaps... I'm just not good enough. Not clever enough, not attractive enough, not socially capable enough. Terrified. Need validation. Critical failure right there. _Mycroft_ doesn't need anybody to reassure him.

“I need validation.”  
“Yes, and what else?”  
“I'm afraid that if I... if there isn't... that maybe, perhaps, I'm not...”  
“The frailty of genius is that it requires an audience.”

Mycroft isn't afraid. Never has been. Why doesn't he care? What does he measure himself against?

“ _Efficiency_ , Sherlock. That's the key. Not validation.”  
“You achieve results. Not... praise?”  
“Precisely. I measure my worth in what I've accomplished, regardless of who knows about it. Of course one must advertise, put on a good front from time to time but... you've taken that just a little bit too far. Do you really need the praise of your inferiors after all?”

Yes. Don't have anything like Mycroft's certainty. His absolute judgement. He's evaluated humanity and found it wanting. I can't- Shake head. Not that he can see me.

“It doesn't have to come now. Eventually will do.”

Eventually. One day. What does Mycroft expect? The inevitable. Can't meet his expectations. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

“One day.”  
“Perhaps.”  
“You're afraid to take that last step. You're far too attached to your notions of humanity.”

Object lesson in how to become a sociopath. Listen to my brother. End result of years of reasoning, training, observing.

“He may even love you all the more for it.”

Scowl. Nonsense. Of course he won't.

“He believes in justice, not people.”

Too much. Can't take it in. Can't argue it. Can't even _process_ it right now.

“Mycroft...”  
“Of course. It's getting late. You should go back to bed now.”

Disconnect. Abrupt. Audio cuts off. DOS text across screen.

 _Audio channel closed._

Take off headset. Rub ears. Left ear squashed a little.

 _Neuromancer has disconnected. Exit Freeside? y/n_

Exit. Presume that Freeside is a London datacentre. Or is it? Called it Freeside when I was in Paris too. Don't need to do anything about the Turing Locks. Disengage automatically when I log out.

 _Tessier-Ashpool mainframe: disconnecting._

Watch the screen. In no state to actually _examine_ Mycroft's latest info dump. Revelation via brutal honesty. Frightening really.

 _Tessier-Ashpool mainframe: disconnected. Have a good day, Wintermute._

DOS prompt screen closes down. Matter of seconds. Won't be any trace of that conversation left. Wonder where the Tessier-Ashpool mainframe is? Cloud obviously. But needs physical servers. Or does- Possible. Mycroft uploads entire setup each time. But- He'd still need a copy. Somewhere. Where would be secure enough? Where would- HMRC. Datacentres everywhere. Most likely option. Mycroft always liked calculations.

Shut down laptop. Quiet. Soft click. Harddrive powers down. Close lid. Turn back to bed. Wonder if- Justice, not humanity. Mutters my name. Frowning. Reaches out. Turn off desk lamp. Slip back into bed. Warm. Secure. Attached to simple things. Not like Mycroft. Press close. Not reassured by Mycroft's absolute truth in the slightest. Terrified by it.

“Hold me.”

Whisper it. Don't expect to be heard. Arms tighten around me anyway.

“Your brother is a real piece of work.”  
“You heard?”  
“Some of it.”

What does that- Does it-

“I just wish he wouldn't upset you.”  
“He...”  
“I know, I know. He means well. The road to Hell's paved with good intentions.”

Laugh a little at that.

“Evil never sleeps, and right now it's up playing Syndicate Wars.”

By way of explanation. He sighs. Doesn't find it funny. Always a little wary of Mycroft anyway. What _did_ Mycroft say to him? Won't tell me. Either of them. Shift. Looking up at him. Can't see his face in the dark.

“Kiss me.”

Not as simple as- never as simple as Mycroft thinks. It's not- Feel as if- Don't want to choose. Reason or emotion? Torn between both. Either/or. Can't have-

“Make me forget.”

Erase it. Unnecessary. Don't need to- Won't need to- Not until Mycroft reminds me. Not until- Wrong. Entirely wrong. It's Neuromancer who doesn't want to merge with Wintermute.


End file.
